The Man With No Name
by TheJackinati275
Summary: How will Eostia handle the man with no name? The man with no name but the eponymous title of Courier six? What about those who seek him?
1. Prologue: Those who seek

**The man with no name.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** Fallout: New Vegas owned by Bethesda studios + Obsidian. Kuroinu is made by Liquid, OAV by Magin.

 **Synopsis:** How will Eostia handle the man with no name? The man with no name but the eponymous title of 'Courier six'?

What about those who seek him?

 **Note:** Again, not entirely following Wimblegurk Brigade 'to the letter'... so, take of that what you will.

* * *

Prologue: Those who seek.

* * *

New Vegas: Outside Nipton.

It was all a haze, a drug induced haze. The revolver was held tightly in his right hand whilst he applied pressure with the left to the wound over his neck. A bullet had struck his ceramic plate and fragmented, the copper jacketing and bits of lead sprayed all over and a chunk struck him at a still-lethal velocity, a tear that cut up from the neck and near the jaw... he could feel the lump near his teeth, and so he spat it out, thick with blood. It was a fucking intense firefight outside of Nipton.

Covered behind a rock, they pinned him down by slow, repeated gunshots... the supersonic clacks resounding through his ears, telling him how close they were, firing just over his head... clack-clack-clack. Where one man fired, the rest maneuvered with fresh weapons, to flank... and when the firer stopped, one of the flankers resumed the firing with their gun, while the other flanked or reloaded.

The courier spotted one of the flankers, with luck. He fired his revolver, center mass, with a hand-loaded round, charged with high amounts of powder and with an extended barrel, the round was sure to have a high velocity, through which the soft tip would expand greatly. The impact was resounding, the recoil was large but the man shot was surely killed, for he shook and spasmed around four times or so before he fell into the dirt.

Then there was the sound of a rock being kicked, and the courier turned to face the source of the sound, a flanker.

-Bang-

Resounded through the courier's ears. A bullet struck against his chest, where he was armoured, and chunks of lead spall were thrown haphazardly about and behind, and up into his face.

The courier took another bullet to his chest, and another... so fucking painful.

The courier reacted with a bullet to the center mass, but the stressful situation caused him to miss his first shot, but the second shot was on point, and the third shot, being well placed, caused a new hole to appear in the forehead of the second flanker. The bullet came through with a small hole, as bullets usually do, but the violence, that force of a high-velocity projectile, the sectional density of a .357 magnum... it brought out a thin line of brain-matter out the other end that spurted perhaps a meter or two back... grotesque, but something to be expected.

Expelling a great breath of air, the Courier reached into a side-strap of his backpack and withdrew his trusted assault rifle. It was fucking hard to shoot under stress... tunnel-vision caused as his pupil's dilated... the adrenaline pumping, the fear growing, stress and anxiety, flashbacks of a past self as he huddled against the rock for safety.

Then, with a fiery determination, the courier jumped out from cover with his Ak-112, riddling the horizon with 5mm rounds to suppress the remaining shooter... then he spotted them and took aim... bang-bang-bang, a burst that killed his foe. Oh, the sight of it, the glory and the pain... The courier was alive, but the others were not. This is survival, primal preservation. He took joy in living, through all the stress of life and living in a post-apocalyptic world.

Biting down hard, the courier could tell that a bullet fragment had struck somewhere important, blood continued to spurt from time to time even after applying a bandage and sometimes his mouth filled with blood. He took a drink of whiskey to wash it all away, and once the burning alcohol had near-singed the wound in great-lingering pain, he injected himself with a dose of Med-x with a small dose of Jet, to give it that little edge.

He walked through the arid desert for several hours, the sky was blue and clear of clouds, until six hours or so later the sky grew darker and he began to crawl when his legs wore out. A sandstorm quickly grew across the land, becoming a veritable sea of red. His geiger-counter ticked low and steady under a x10 setting. He was exposed out in the open space to a sandstorm, the radioactive sands kicking about and finding places to land.

How uncomfortable it was for the courier, to crawl about as his clothing began to pile up with sand from the inside, the ceramic material of his chestplate rubbing up his chest, rubbing raw against the region near his nipples.

He knew that he would have his revenge, even if he was struggling to find his footing. He would reach... there. To wherever Benny was, he would reach there... and kill him.

He struggled to see though the hazy sea of red... but something stuck out on the near horizon, a ruined surface, a pre-war road. His exhausted and water-starved body struggled to reach it as he crawled over. He tapped against an object, how hot it was because the surface was solid metal that absorbed the sun's rays.

The Courier vomited blood against the sand as he struggled to keep his eyes intact.

"Benny!"

There was no response except the reverberation of his loud outburst, the sound that traveled for a long distance through the empty stretch of desert.

"Beeeennnnnyyyy!"

The Courier knew his chances of living were slim... his stimpaks had run out a few days ago. He was fueled by vengeance, alcohol and drugs at this point, his adrenaline keeping him keen. He smelled of blood, sweat, vomit and desperation. His last bath was at lake mead and he smelled much like a brahmin in a pen.

"Beeeeennnnnnyyyyy!"

And so, from exasperated screaming and overwhelming exhaustion, the Courier fell from the world.

* * *

New Vegas: Outside the El Rey Motel.

Buzzkill looked down on those fucking morons. Those six idiots and that cantankerous cunt-fuck asshole in power-armour who thinks he can lord himself around as a fucking king or chieftain. Fuck that noise, she could only take so much before she'd fucking kill someone.

Fortunately, she wasn't the only fiend around. It was a group of sixteen, those fucking idiots were only seven who were the outsiders. There were two mercenaries, one who was something else and the rest wore striped outfits with blue jackets over it, powder-gangers or some-shit... then there was Bop.

Bop, now there was a quiet fiend if ever you saw one. Some would think that was a sign of a pussy-like bitch with a wilty-little cock... but his silence was just... well... suffice to say, he just didn't waste words or shit... he was a real doer, kills without question... Bop, In and out with a shiv, hence the name. Nobody ever touched his pistol but him, he probably jacks himself off with the thing, always pulling back the slide with it and shit.

There were two pack brahmin too, laden with ammunition mostly. Whoever the asshole was that killed cook-cook was who they were after, some Courier... this cunt wasn't going to be taken lightly. They'd shove some missiles up his fat ass and fill him full of holes. _'Ahhh, It'd be fun to have a fight out, haven't had much of those in Westside.'_ Buzzkill thought with a grin.

And pushing those thoughts aside to the craving she felt inside, she spoke aloud. "Anyone got a smoke?"

Someone threw a pack at her and she quickly caught it. "Thanks, asshole." Buzzkill saw that the pack was quarter-filled, and pulled a cigarette out and brought it to her lips, pursing it there while lighting the end with her lighter. "Ahhhhh, so where is this motherfucker?"

One of the mercenary-types spoke up. "Last report of him is west of Vegas... so fuck knows."

And so the group went along, searching for the famed 'Courier' whom they were going to kill. They were going to use his dead body as a message to others, It was a pretty normal routine for a Fiend, all things considered, she just hoped the others weren't going to have their 'morals' questioned. Here, you do what you have to do, sometimes you enjoy it. No use questioning it or you'll end up dead, or crazy.

Yes, crazy... sometimes Buzzkill thought she was going crazy. Yeah right, fuck that.

She was just getting high on 'life'... Killing wasn't a joy, it was just exhilarating, getting shot at, now that was fun. She loved that rush, that fear, that god-damned shit-wrenching terror, it made her live. It made her heart race.

"I can't wait till we find this motherfucker... gonna fuckin' send him right up to Jupiter." Buzzkill uttered with a manic smile.

One of the mercenaries grinned, offering a quick retort. "Or up Uranus!"

Buzzkill turned to face him, anger showing on her face. She didn't even feel angry... she just liked to be confrontational and irrational. "Yeah, go fuck yourself, you cunt... Nobody fucking talks back ta' me motherfucker n' lives!"

The Mercenary reached for his holster, Buzzkill did the same. Bop frowned at this, letting out a guttural sound.

Buzzkill took that sound to heart and backed down. "Oi cunt, don't be so fucking defensive!" Buzzkill proclaimed. "I'm fucking joking, for fucks sake!"

* * *

Eostia: Dark Fortress.

There was something lacking...

True, Olga's orcs were an effective, ruthless horde, the might through which the Human's would be crushed.

Yet Olga felt that there was something that alluded her. She needed something more powerful...

Which is why she was going to summon a demon, control him like she had the orcs.

She needed a symbol, more effective than an orc, to spread fear of the likes that orcs could not provide. Fear that would make men lay down their arms... and accept the embrace of death.

So it was, that at the peak of night, Olga made the primary circle, drawn in with red-coloured chalk. She drew the snake that coiled twice around the circle, the head facing east and the tail on the west. A diamond was formed in the middle of that circle, and surrounding it were four hexagrams with letters inscribed in each limb, placed on the four primary cardinal points, each of these written with a corresponding colour of chalk.

Then, with a string of words deep with magical meaning, fire descended through the room. A figure emerged from the magical flames, within the summoning circle.

The flames were quickly extinguished, forming a column of smoke that obscured the new figure from further scrutiny from her inquisitive, cautious gaze.

"Aack... Splluuck." Was the sound that came from within the smoke column... the sound of vomiting.

The smoke that adhered the figure in mystery quickly withered away, revealing the figure, now unconscious. Olga saw the figure and hatred burst from the seams of her heart.

She loathed, hated, despised humans to the very core of her being...

"You are not a demon, you lack a magical aura... useless." Olga casually listed down aloud, about the useless human before her.

Chloe, who had attended Olga from the corner of the room, quickly came to her side, with her sword outstretched toward the human.

Olga turned to face Chloe. "Imprison that thing."

Chloe walked over the human man, avoiding stepping into the ichor-like vomit, to better investigate him before forming her own opinion.

He was wounded, that was already clear... blood seeping from a bandage. The application of magic could heal him, but it wasn't like he would die anytime soon either.

"He is wounded." Chloe mentioned.

Olga looked Chloe in the eye. "It is human."

Chloe hefted the man up over her shoulder... She knew it was best not to question Olga when she was in this mood.

This man reeked, worse even than orc men, the scent of desperation, fear... alcohol and urine. Carrying him was a disgusting prospect, but it that had to be done.

Once she had him settled on her shoulder, she walked towards the cell complex, placing him down into a random cell, the fifth one on the right.

With him being armoured, Chloe carefully removed the man's garments one by one, especially that strange armband, removing all except for his briefs.

The man before her, for he was certainly a man, was a sight that even she found to be distressing. For, being herself a rape victim, she had herself known the depths to which man could be damaged...

It was clear this man had been through abuse.

Scar tissue on the back of the leg, a strange circular scar indentation on the side of his right arm... a circular indentation that covered the top of his head, a series of abrasions that run along his body... sun-burnt skin... even bite marks appeared over his left shoulder, human teeth had sunken in, discernible by the shape of the jaw... definitely human bites.

There was also a series of etches that covered over his right forearm... a trailing line of dots hewn from ink, tattoo's.

But, even if the man had no scars at all, he would still be a troubled man... he seemed to be half-starved. He was thin, unhealthily so, as though his body was eating away at his muscles, having nothing left to burn away.

Strange as it is, she could see a bit of herself in this man. It was hard, thinking that there might be another person who had suffered something similar to herself... but the fact that he was human... made the issue hard for her.

Chloe stood up, taking the man's gear with her. Then she closed the gate, leaving the man inside the cell.

* * *

The first two portions were something that I scrounged out about a year ago, for a Fallout: New Vegas story that I planned about writing but scrapped, but with Wimblegurk's DLC 3 suggestion list, I decided that I might as well put the two sections to use. The rest was conjured up in about two or three hours.

Let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 1: Life is strange

**The man with no name.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** Fallout: New Vegas owned by Bethesda studios + Obsidian. Kuroinu is made by Liquid, OAV by Magin.

 **Synopsis:** How will Eostia handle the man with no name? The man with no name but the eponymous title of 'Courier six'?

What about those who seek him?

 **Note:** Again, not entirely following Wimblegurk Brigade 'to the letter'... so, take of that what you will.

* * *

Laden out upon a wooden table were captures of a foreign world. Slumped up and unzipped, a backpack full of items.

Chloe, brimming with curiosity, took it upon herself to examine the man's belongings.

She took stock of all that was contained within this backpack.

Seven curious devices, little squares of an unknown material, coloured a faded yellow, with a marking on the edge written in a foreign language that she could not decipher.

There was a tin container filled with a clay-like substance, malleable by hand, with strange straw-like, colourful, bendable objects that contained copper wires at each end.

Many brass objects of assorted sizes, held within a curious bag made from an exotic, transparent material, like a solid fabric with no weave, yet entirely flexible.

Two objects with handles fit for the palm of a hand, with a barrel protruding outwards, a strange weapon perhaps?

There was a third object with a stock, and seemingly like a crossbow without the bow.

There was a knife with a clipped tip, and another weapon much like a falchion.

There were two shaped copper discs, perhaps an item of ornamentation?

One-hundred and seven or so small discs of metal, with a folded bent edge, so very strange.

Two black cylinders, one with a hole going through the middle and another which had magnifying lenses, much like a telescope.

Two box-like metal containers, filled with similar brass objects like those in the weaveless fabric.

There was also a book, but she could not glean anything insightful from it, not knowing the language that it was written in.

Perhaps Olga could be persuaded to aid it this endeavour, with a little magical assistance to pry the man's language from his head, and put it to good use.

As if reading her mind, Olga just happened to enter the room, opening her mouth as soon as she saw Chloe. "I've given it another thought… I think I will let that… _thing_ live."

Chloe turned around to face her saviour. "Oh… I think he might be useful, as an asset."

Olga smiled. "I thought the same thing." Pausing for a moment, Olga pointed to an object which she held within her left palm. "I need you to place this collar around his neck."

* * *

Chapter 1: Life is strange.

* * *

Life is a strange thing, it can shift and turn… it can send you many strange places. You can live for many years, or only a few moments. It can be ended quickly, or slowly…

Plugging a steel pin into position, the courier attached his scope to his Ak-112. It was a task made quick through honed, repetitive action out in the wastes.

The lowest setting, 4x magnification was not adequate, for his target was roughly five-hundred yards away, by estimation, and so he adjusted the scope to it's highest setting, four tiny clicks to reach to the 10x magnification.

Now that his target was in clear focus, he aimed the reticle to rest just over the back of his target, and then raised it slightly higher, to around the neckline, to compensate for bullet drop.

As he focused in on his target… a flashback struck at his mind, images of the past, memories, the courier could remember seeing a dear friend long-since gone in a past life, being shot from a long distance, his face full of shock, he murmured aloud for two minutes or so as others tried to staunch the bleeding. He died painfully about a day later.

With a quick exhale of breath, the courier drew aside the memory and took his shot. That distinctive crack of rifle-fire resounded throughout the land, but the courier hardly took notice.

He was near-fused to his scope, focused on his target. That man would never know that his life would be cut short… he would never hear the gunshot as the courier's bullet, supersonic as it was, would kill him quicker than he could hear the sound of his firearm.

That man took a 5mm round through the back, he was certainly dead as he fell to the ground like a bag of weights being dropped from a pedestal.

Death can come as simply as that, a bang and a whimper, never knowing that you could be down the reticle of someone's scope...

Snipers are hated for that reason and more, but loved by those they work for.

There was no time to think on the moral right or wrong of his situation, however… he was shifting his aim upwards, towards a palisade tower… by the time this had happened, his opponents had heard his gunshot and saw as their companion was killed.

One man ducked behind cover, thinking himself safe behind the wooden beams. The courier knew better, knew what a high-velocity rifle round could do to that kind of cover… so he aimed toward where he thought the centre mass was and fired three shoots in half-second intervals

Even if the rounds might not penetrate through with full power, depending on the thickness of the wood, a keyholing bullet is a scary projectile regardless.

And so the courier scanned through the horizon, finding his enemies, striking them down with near-impunity, like a vengeful god. By his reckoning, he had taken out eight or nine… and the orcs and ogres, Olga's band of men took the initiative.

Behind the now unguarded palisade wall lay a village with around two-hundred or so occupants… but as Olga's orcs came streaming through, slaughtering the men... enslaving women and children, the population was now only around seventy or eighty… This conduct of warfare reminded him of the Legion, but also of the unsanctioned actions of the cattle-barons out california-way, and of other unscrupulous men who called themselves NCR _'men'_. The cattle-barons initiated skirmishes and promoted for the enforced removal of tribal entities under NCR supervision, stealing the land from tribals, leaving them destitute and living on welfare within the hub and Shady sands, the unscrupulous fed on their pain and misery, their misfortune.

He could object, raise his voice to the orcs, tell them to stop… but it was not like he could change anything. No, change is not so easily brought about by words, as it is brought about through the barrel of a gun. The gun can speak a universal language that weighs heavier than mere words.

And, having your hypothetical balls being caught in a vice… Well, that is something else as well.

His words could not cool the hatred that lay in men and women's hearts, born of anger, rage, egotism… hatred born of watching ones you love being massacred or raped, the feeling so heavy that it weighs down on you like an anvil in your stomach, a hate so fiery that no matter the force of logic, hatred will almost always prevail.

For all that the humans had done to the elves, the elves were doing to man. The courier saw life as a cyclical cycle… always repeating, with no way to change it. What could he say then, to halt Olga from her path? Nothing.

The courier knew that those who he was serving were immoral, but it was not as though he hadn't helped immoral men or immoral governments before.

No, life is just this… a cycle, an endless cycle. We never change, people never change… war never changes.

The courier used this explanation to justify what was happening, about the actions of those he now 'worked' for. It was not like he could change anything, so why bother...

Besides, it was not his world. This was a feudal world, full of life, plants, trees, fields of grain as far as the eye can see, whereas his own world was stock-full of suffering, a planet where life is hard, life is fast, where life is a mere leaf blowing in the wind of time.

How is it that amongst a green, bountiful world, people can still resort to vile acts of barbarism?

' _I might as well be back home.'_ The courier mused sarcastically in his mind as he sat on the top of the palisade wall, looking out at the forest that lay just forty metres away.

There was something calming about looking into the forest, that could make him forget about what was happening behind him in the village. Abounding with life and full of vivid green leaves, something so very different to what the Courier was used to. He was used to rough hardship, an arid landscape beaten by heated sands blown in by powerful winds, water a rare resource… a life-saving commodity.

But a peaceful forest was a nice change of scenery.

The courier shifted his hand around his neck, which was now adorned with a metallic collar...

He knew but one thing, that he was, as he had always been back on earth... a 'thrall' in the game of things, a mere pawn, a player shifted about by more 'important' people, then discarded.

Feeling over the gunshot wound on his head… he knew that much. Just a pawn, used then thrown away.

With a wistful sigh, the courier thought back on how it all began, how he met the person who now enslaved him.

* * *

It was quiet inside the cell, foreboding outside of it, for through the iron-wrought bars and mortared stonework, the 'window' through which he could see… all that greeted him was a blackened, obsidian-esque horizon for as long as the eye could see, enriched by the appearance of a red-hazed sky, which made the obsidian gleam a red-hellish hue.

He had awoken maybe an hour or so ago, to find himself nearly naked… with a strange collar around his neck, inside an enclosed cell with bars of iron blocking off one end.

Looking out at the landscape, he could not help but reflect on the hellishness of it, that aesthetic quality… so familiar, yet so different from the hellish wasteland that he was familiar with, the Mojave wasteland. But, hadn't he also been to the Californian wasteland too, hadn't he once seen the boneyards of adytum, the Shi of San Francisco… or were those the mere ramblings and dreams of a man since dead?

He knew deep down that there was something that was wrong with his head, besides a gunshot wound and scrambled brains. He could remember a past life in flashbacks, but everything was jumbled and confusing. He could remember everything after being shot, but not much of anything before.

Whilst looking on the hellish wasteland he saw a bolt of thunder strike against an obsidian pillar, that gunfire-like sound running through the land, he shook for a moment, senses flaring, his breathing heavy. An understandable reaction to one so used to the dangers of life in a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Seemingly caught up, he was caught unaware by two figures. One had white hair, and this was the one who opened the cell with a key, he or she stood maybe six feet tall.

The other figure was taller and more imposing. She waved her hand once, twice.

The courier blinked once, then twice, taking the time to gaze upon the figures before him.

They were both female, donned in garments that left little to the imagination, but strangest of all were the sharpened, elongated ears that adorned both figures.

"Can you understand me, pig?"

The courier frowned upon the insult, and replied likewise with a fire of his own.

"Oink." Was his laconic snark, a singular wisp spoken with grimace.

The central figure smiled, but the smile on her face made it seem more like she was more manic than truly happy.

"I have a proposal of sorts..."

The courier quickly assumed that the female before her was making a life-changing proposition…

"Actually, I don't. If you do not work for me, I will kill you."

The courier grasped both hands to his collar. Upon doing this, the woman nodded her head once in affirmation. He should have expected this. It was not as though he could raise an objection, for he was near-useless without a weapon, nor did he wish to die.

"I shall take your silence as a sign of complicity."

The second lady, the one with blonde hair came forwards with a bowl, wafts of steam emerging from the wooden container.

The courier, lacking all decorum, ate like a dog, to the enthusiasm of his captors.

The courier stood up, a question spoken from his mind. "I will need some information."

Of course, the courier asked this in his regular, brusque fashion.

The dark lady pointed a finger towards the blonde haired woman. "Chloe, my second, will assist you in thi..."

The courier quickly interjected. "Am I to kill someone?"

The dark lady had a wry smile. "Of course I expect you to kill, I expect you to kill my enemies, I expect you to extinguish the life from Celestine Lucullus."

* * *

"He doesn't talk much." The courier overheard, listening out from atop the palisade.

The courier didn't know how he had an understanding for the orc language, but he did. Apparently, as Olga explained, it was magic.

"The dark queen has that collar on him… He's her bitch, now."

The courier sighed to himself, before uttering a single retort. "Hmmppff."

The offending orc flexed his muscles before gesturing to his axe. "Hah, he admits it, He's the _queen's_ bitch?"

The courier gathered up the saliva within his mouth and spat it downwards toward the direction of the orc's.

The boisterous orc made to grasp his axe in an offensive posture. "I don't know how you became our leader… You are weak… puny. You don't even fuck a bitch."

The courier scratched his neck, assuming a face much like one who was completely and utterly bored and was barely paying attention. After a moment, the courier sighed. "I may seem weak… puny to you, but I have a gun and you do not."

"What is a gun? Did you call me weak?." The Orc retorted with anger.

The courier looked the orc directly in the eyes, ignoring his question. "Until the 'Bitch queen' says otherwise, I _am_ your leader… raise your voice again, I _will_ end you."

The boisterous orc backed down, so the courier continued with his sentence. "Next time, I suggest not being near your leader when you call him a bitch behind his back, you got that? Because If you didn't, I'm going to make your life fucking miserable."

"Yes boss, we understand!" Was the reply from the second orc, who restrained the boisterous orc and pulled him back. The courier didn't like that, boss was too polite and formal to his ears. Turning around to face the second orc, he raised his objection.

"Call me six." The courier said at first, but upon observing the confused reaction of the more peaceable orc, the courier explained. "Six is my name."

"Yes… six."

The courier sighed. With a potential power-struggle brought to a head, he walked into the forest with the intent of throwing away time, spending it doing something that he wanted to do, explore, rather than sit up and listen to people having their livelihoods ruined by orcs.

Of course, fate, the habitual soul-crusher of all our lives, interceded… stopping Six from actually doing any meaningful exploration.

Fate interceded in the form of a band of knights, squires, retinues and feudal-lances, men armed and armoured in a motley assortment of varying qualities and degrees, with the knights and men-at-arms being better equipped than the squires, and squires being better equipped than those below them and so forth. In all, the band was composed of around fifty men, but all were riding on horses, for having seemingly heard of an attack, knew that only mounted men would be fast enough to respond.

This band rode through the palisade whilst Six was meandering. He was only alerted when he heard screaming and thus he hastily responded.

It was not as though the courier could do much to stop the medieval men from slaughtering the orcs as they were generally individualistic fighters who refrained from formational fighting, which combined with their lust for violence, gold and partying frivolously… ensured that they were highly ineffective against their pursuers.

Besides, even though the courier was armed with several 'modern' firearms, fifty assailants that were mounted on horses was not entirely easy. Even should the courier hit every man once, his magazine only had a capacity of twenty-four rounds. With no other magazine, he would have to manually load individual rounds into his empty...

In short, there was no way he could combat the band via a firefight alone. But, the courier knew this, expected this. He was already reaching into his backpack, retrieving two items of importance.

Silently he crawled towards the gate of the palisade and dug a small pothole into the dirt-path. His weapon was a tin can with iron nails and ballbearings placed within two-thirds of the tin can, the rest being filled up with a small portion of c-4 with a detonating element inside.

This improvised explosive device was then buried, waiting to be detonated by the remote detonator which the courier kept inside a pouch on the side of his backpack.

Then, the courier made a footpath, purposely being bashful about it as he aimed to lead any pursuers towards further traps.

Locating a place optimally suited to this purpose, a location between two trees where foliage and grass would disguise a tripwire, the courier reached for some fishing line, tying it towards a branch that he broke off and thrust deep into the soil. To finish off his trap, he tied the fishing line securely around the pin of a fragmentation grenade.

Then, being very careful, he made a path towards the opposite side whilst trying not to leave any tracks that would lead the enemy towards his new position, which was near the apex of a forested hill where he could oversee everything, whilst being camouflaged himself.

Halfway towards reaching this position, he fired his revolver into the air, to hopefully draw some of the band outwards… rustling was heard overhead as birds flew away with the commotion.

His plan was to save his improvised explosive for later. For now, he continued to walk towards his chosen position.

Sitting down prone upon reaching his position, the courier kept his remote detonator securely within his left hand whilst he observed the horizon with his binoculars.

Within a few moments the sound of an explosion alerted the courier. It seems that his grenade trap had worked. It might not have been a grenade-bouquet of multiple grenades… but a fragmentation grenade with a kill radius of around 10 meters was sufficient.

Not long afterwards, the courier was faced with the dilemma of choosing the optimum time to detonate his secondary bomb. It was a bit nerve-wracking when he allowed seven or eight men to walk through the path unopposed, but when six or seven mounted men rode outwards in a tight mass, barely a meter or so apart from one another, the courier seized upon the opportunity.

-click-

Nothing happened…

-click-

The courier paled slightly... fear was beginning to course through his veins. He could feel that instinctive, flighty feeling of adrenaline creeping in.

-click-

The mounted soldiers were now passing the improvised bomb… their mounts rushing forwards at near a gallops pace. If it didn't detonate soon… he'd only cause a minimal amount of damage… or none at all.

-click-

-Bang-

That one, tell-tale sound of an explosion, like a thunderstorm… this fourth press of the detonator did the trick, relief poured back into the courier, but he knew he had to keep alert. You must always be alert and never too relieved that you became 'slack' or careless.

The courier bore witness to the devastation of which an explosive device can strew about… literally in that sense of the word… 'strewn about'. Several horses were flown what might have been two or three meters into the air, their bodies saturated with fragments and shrapnel, nail-bits and tin-can shards. Medieval armour afforded little in the way of protection for the men atop the horses… for though some shrapnel might be turned aside, not all of it could be protected against, and for the explosive pressure there was no defense that any gambeson could save them from. Five men were killed outright whilst two survived… their struggles and movements confirming this much… four horses were killed, one was made lame as a front leg had been torn off and sent flying. Two horses were left neighing loudly, blood pouring profusely from their skin as they lay down on the ground.

Unfortunately, observing this brought back a flashback… fortunately, however, the courier punched himself several times in the forehead to break away from it. The courier hated them, they were not merely an inconvenience, they could be very dangerous when these recollections were brought whilst he was in a dangerous situation. He could not allow himself to be wracked up in ancient memories, nor allow for any guilt or remorse to cloud his actions.

Taking out his Ak-112 from the left strap of his backpack, the courier uncapped his scope and adjusted the magnification to x8, then with two flicks, one to take off the safety and the other to semi-automatic mode, his weapon was ready.

"Okay..." The courier said to himself. "Go on, kill."

* * *

Outside Nipton.

"Listen, bitch… hand that shit over. I don't need you overdosin'."

"Go fuck yourself." Buzzkill retorted. There was no way in hell she was going to give anyone her stash of drugs, especially not that power-armoured fuckhead. "Seriously, go stick a deathclaw's cock right up your asshole!" Buzzkill added for emphasis.

Buzzkill really hated living, sometimes. When a guy in a T-51b suit was suddenly holding you up by the neck… shit was getting real.

"Give me one good reason not to kill you, bitch."

"Nghhh." was her only reply. It wasn't like she could do anything else while she was being choked.

The power-armoured man dropped her down into the sand. "Try me again. Hand it over, now."

Buzzkill threw her canvas rucksack down to the sand, pouting with rage as she did so. Opening up the backpack, the power-armoured man threw the contents down to the ground.

After a moment, the man retrieved all of her drugs… then he hefted up a firearm, one that he knew as a 'grease-gun'. "This is for the trouble." He said, pilfering the weapon "Don't see too many original, .45 chambered ones of these nowadays." He then turned and started to move off, to leave Buzzkill to her lonesome.

"Fuck you." Buzzkill replied. She never was original with her outbursts of anger, always resorting to those two words.

The power-armoured man turned suddenly and rushed forwards towards her, again holding her up by her neck. "I just might if you keep that up, bitch." His left hand started to dart downwards, tracing near her right breast.

Bop grunted aloud at that, moving close to Buzzkill.

The power-armoured man dropped Buzzkill down to the sand. "Watch your mouth, next time… or this will happen again, and he won't stop me from fucking your inbred raider ass."

Once the power-armoured man had left, Buzzkill spat out in protestation. "I'm going to cut off his balls and his cock… gonna shove 'em right up his asshole."

Bop grunted in affirmation. He reached down and started grabbing some of Buzzkill's things.

"Hey guys… I found something in these ruins, come look!" One of the powder gangers shouted.

As soon as those words were uttered… everything became white.

* * *

Celestine Lucullus heard a voice coming from the clouds.

"I shall restore the balance... I invite to you this band from another world, to wage war against your mortal foe."

Then, from nowhere a large band of men had seemingly dropped into her courtyard, as well as several strange, bovine-esque creatures.

"Hello, I am Celestine Lucullus, I bid you welcome to Eostia."

Buzzkill giggled as soon as she saw the person who spoke… then she formed a fake smile, strolling out in front of the boss in T-51b armour… she was the first to speak, mocking her host.

"Look at me... I'm Celestine Lucullus, a bull-fucker legionite bitch... I bid you welcome~" Buzzkill mocked, gesturing out with her two hands to form large, watermelon sized breasts. "I also bid you pull out your mighty cocks… and stroketh upon them vigorously, and raineth down upon my face with your superior, non-legionary jizz!"

Celestine looked appalled and shocked by the conduct.

Buzzkill looked Celestine right in the eyes, rage in them. "What the fuck kinda people speak like that… and what the fuck are'ya trying to pull around here, Look at your clothes, even a whore would be embarrassed to wear that shit, Legion bitch."

One of the mercenaries, the joker of the group retorted back to Buzzkill. "Hey, your one to talk whilst in that leather, spikey shit that tries to show off your tiny tits… except it makes you look like a man. Me, I'd fuck that lady more than I would you!"

Buzzkill was about to laugh before offering her own retort, but was stopped.

The boss gripped Buzzkill by the neck again and threw her harshly into the ground. "Shut the fuck up or I will _murder_ you."

The boss then spoke, putting his right foot over Buzzkill's belly to keep her down on the ground. "I don't know who the fuck you are… Celestine, But I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say."

* * *

Thank you for reading.

Let me know what you thought.


	3. Chapter 2: Water of life

**The man with no name.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** Fallout: New Vegas owned by Bethesda studios + Obsidian. Kuroinu is made by Liquid, OAV by Magin.

 **Synopsis:** How will Eostia handle the man with no name? The man with no name but the eponymous title of 'Courier six'?

What about those who seek him?

 **Note:** Again, not entirely following Wimblegurk Brigade 'to the letter'... so, take of that what you will.

* * *

Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty… and that cacophonous sound of fly-buzzing, constant and unsettling. The scent in the air was putrid with an ammonia smell underneath… along with that tinge of lamp oil.

He knew there was more than that sum, but the numbers began to blur apart after seventy.

Were there eighty, ninety… a hundred dead people? or was that number inflated by the body-parts that had been strewn about? Sometimes you couldn't identify if a piece of ' _meat'_ came from a man or a horse, but either way he picked up the pieces and brought it back to the gaping hole that he had dug, threw them in unceremoniously.

Dead orcs, dead peasants, dead knights and men-at-arms, people so different in life… such a wide gulf that separated one another in social rank and status, those highborn and lowborn, rich and poor, orc and human... but here in the pit they were together in death, in a heaped mound.

There were some with their eyes open, facing the sky. Vacant, lifeless stares… as though they were trying to peer into his soul as he placed them in their grave. The courier didn't know how to feel about his situation, but he continued onwards.

Continuous dragging… hours combing the landscape until all pieces had been gathered.

There were only two bodies left. Two bodies cradled in his arms, a boy and a girl, maybe they were siblings, maybe they weren't… but it was a spark of sadness regardless. They couldn't have been more than five years old. Lives stolen before their time… extinguished from the face of the world, to never raise nor walk again.

He placed them into the pit, their eternal tomb.

With the scraping of a match and the flick of a finger… the pit was engulfed in flames.

Not wishing to see the burning corpses or wanting to experience the smell of burning flesh, The courier turned around and walked away.

He was followed by his remaining orc soldiers, who dragged their human captives behind them.

Through it all, the courier wondered If he was 'the bad guy' of it all. Was good and evil just a subjective term? Did it even matter at this point?

"Hey boss, where are we going?" Ogur spoke.

The courier turned, facing the man who held back the axe-wielding orc previously. He didn't really care to correct the orc for calling him 'boss' when he told him not to, so he kept his tongue in check.

After a moment, Six spoke. "We return to the queen."

* * *

Chapter 2: Water of life

* * *

One week later.

What had been a five day journey previously, had become a week long journey. The human captives that the orcs brought with them slowed things down.

The courier was greeted firstly by that strange magical force field that surrounded the dark fortress. It defied all logic and reason, it defied science, yet here it existed. Magic.

Yet his neck-piece had been embedded with a magical seal that would open the way forward and allow access through the forcefield. Anyone else who tried to cross would have died.

He was then greeted by Chloe, Olga's right-hand and henchman… or maybe henchwoman or henchess or something. She was laying against the stone wall near the large, wooden gate, the entrance to the fortress.

"The dark queen is busy. You can relay the news to me and I will inform her." Immediately after saying that, she threw herself off the wall and opened the gate with the palm of her left hand, which glowed blue from the use of magic… or something of that sort.

The courier turned around to face his second-in-command. "Ogur, tell her."

Ogur recoiled momentarily, but then spoke up. "Mistress Chloe... We lost… most of our men."

Chloe turned to face the courier. "Did you. This will reflect po…"

Six raised his palm before speaking, interrupting Chloe mid sentence. "Let me speak…" Six then coughed to himself for a moment before continuing on. "I have killed maybe… seventeen or eighteen men… maybe more. I killed eight men on the pallisade, clearing way for 'my' orcs to take the village with ease."

Ogur then raised his voice. "More bad-humans came, on horses and armed to the teeth… they slaughtered us."

Six then replied back, with a slight hint of bravado. "And I saved the fucking day, though I won't take all the credit. I killed maybe ten more at that point. The soldiers then put all eyes on me, allowing for my second in command to rally his routing men back to the village square and take the men from behind."

Chloe noted this information down mentally. "Regardless, you have still lost men to recklessness."

The courier grunted at that last word, but didn't offer any comment, not wanting to degrade his 'relationship' with his 'client'.

Just as Six was about to enter through the gate, Chloe spoke again. "One moment."

Six turned to face Chloe, his face apprehensive. Chloe was facing the orcs that he commanded. "Leave the thralls in the prison cell where they can be sorted later."

Then turning, Chloe looked into the eyes of the courier, whose eyes quickly flitted about to avoid her gaze.

' _He doesn't trust me and is afraid of me.'_

Trying to change the mood, Chloe spoke. "There is food ready, and drink."

Ogur's eyes beamed at the prospect. His hand reached for his stomach for a moment. The courier, having caught sight of this, sighed.

"Do you want to join, Ogur."

Ogur's reply was near-instantaneous. "Yes."

* * *

Meanwhile, camped outside the City of Ur.

"What is your opinion on these new ones?" Hicks said, lazily gazing down at his leather shoes.

Volt turned to face his companion, and when Kin nodded his head in affirmation, Volt answered.

"I don't know them, I don't trust them, and I don't want them to fuck things up."

Hicks grinned after a moment. "Do you think they would be good… in our... _plan_?"

Volt looked Hicks in the eye. "Maybe."

Kin raised his voice. "Perhaps a test, of sorts. I know of a village nearby, which is likely to be raided within a near timeframe. Let them defend this village so that we will see their ability in combat, see if they suit us, if they can fight with us."

Volt smiled. "I don't like them, so why not. Let's see what they can do, And if they fail it is not my problem."

* * *

The next day: Noon.

There was some podunk little fucking village that they were supposed to defend, roughly twelve miles outside of Ur, one of a few cities that had magic-wielding princess-knights or somesuch shit… So here John was, sitting on his ass outside of his suit of power armour, with a belt-fed light machinegun resting against his right thigh, the feeding tray cleared and open.

John had an oiled rag wrapped around a coat hanger which he inserted through the barrel, damping down with the makeshift ramrod like it were a musket, clearing away small specks of carbon that clung to the grooves of the rifling in the barrel.

When using the pre-war surplus crap, you really had to wipe your guns down, they were so old that the chemicals in the powder liked to clog up into chunks, which sometimes didn't burn all the way through down the barrel, so the pressure generated was erratic and misfires could happen, especially if the recoil forces were so light that the gun couldn't cycle properly. Rule number one though, was to clean your gun no matter what, _keep it clean_.

Everyone likes to talk shit about raiders, vipers and 'tribals' being stupid, Inbred morons, but that was stupid NCR propagandist bullshit. In the wasteland, everybody tried to keep well-maintained weapons… those who didn't got fucking killed. Everybody could maintain a firearm and be fucking deadly with them, but the thing about the NCR that made them good was cohesion, training and a government… or rather a Tandi dictatorshit that was called a Republic but wasn't until the old bitch's death, then politicians were stepping over their own balls trying to be the new replacement. Fuck them.

"So, how did you get the armour?" Rigs asked, interrupting John's internal monologue.

John, the leader, responded. "You know those old rangemasters?"

Rigs thought on that for a moment. "You mean that old gun… ahh, bolt-action, right?"

John sighed. "Yeah, I miss the old one. Ruby, her firing-spring broke and I had to chuck most of her but I kept the barrel, no more replacement parts left… but she was a fine weapon. She was a trusty lady, great for plinking, her sights were always on, sighted in at a hundred yards… Bang. Could hardly miss."

"So?" Rigs added, trying to stir the conversation back to his original question.

John reached his arms out, holding up an imaginary firearm. "Fucking hell, you wouldn't believe it. One day, I'm about to take a piss when I saw something on the horizon, it was about ninety yards away from me, so I got flat down on the ground… It was a fucking Brotherhood guy. Y'know, my parents told me to not 'Fuck with the brotherhood'... well they'd be fucking right. It was stupid, but I thought 'why not'... Bang, shot the fuck through the eyeslot. If I hadn't a gotten'im, I'd be fucking dead."

Rigs nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah, your fucking lucky to have that power armour."

John shrugged his shoulders after a moment. "What is our readout? How's our ammo?"

Rigs reached towards one of the brahmin and untied a signed document. "Four thousand 5mm, one thousand .308, Four thousand 5.56, A thousand 9mm, A thousand .45 ACP… various more of assorted calibres in varying amounts. Seven missiles, fifteen fragmentation grenades, fifteen fragmentation mines, Six pounds of C-4, Thirty pounds of dynamite, four of RDX."

"Yeah, Good enough." John said. "I expect a total expenditure of three to five hundred rounds, by the end of the day, maybe more. If they rush out, though, that changes."

This prediction was based on past experience, based on defensive firing with single-shot, or at most burst firing in short, staccato-esque outbursts. However, should shit go down, natural stress will cause increasing levels of inaccuracy, and increase the likelihood of fully-automatic bursts. This would impact negatively on the ammunition supply.

John looked out on the horizon, through the cleared central lane. This was his position as he was the only one who would remain outside, while his men were to remain inside of chosen buildings in teams of three, their positions chosen to mutually cover each other and provide rough lines of fire… In short, to ensure maximum casualties for the level of expertise and tactical skill of his men, against the heavily lopsided numbers of enemies who were likely to attack. Certainly, given that life was luscious and green, in a foreign world, so too were the population figures greater than that in the wasteland. Yet, so great is the disparriage between technology, that John knew that there would be a lot of death-dealing in a short span of time.

John trusted in his company to remain tactically proficient, even if they were not to the level of the NCR, even if he didn't like all of them. If the wasteland taught you anything, it tells you that those who stick together and fight together are overall much more likely to live.

But, divisions will kill you… and so you must crack down on the bad elements, those who in their laziness and inaction, or in their violence and anarchy, spread their sentiments around to everyone else. You must destroy those sorts of people.

If he could… and If he felt that there was some chance of success, He would kill Buzzkill before she destroys everything. He would have to do this while everyone else is distracted, or perhaps he could arrange for her death in other ways.

This, he thought upon, while he distributed out ammunition supplies between the various buildings that he had chosen. He matched the ammunition chosen to the calibre of the firearms that his companions were using, in order to improve combat efficiency.

On the way he spotted something out on the horizon, In the glinted refraction of sunlight over a body of water. He pulled out his binoculars, to better observe the body of water, and noted several other glints.

In the forest about three kilometers out, he spotted moving figures… mutant-like, shuffling about. These were orcs, he had been told by the Black dogs, orcs, the enemy of mankind. Rapists, murderers, bandits… similar to him and some of his men, but though it might seem hypocritical, John thought that the orcs were far more repugnant than he ever could be, in their actions.

' _Genociding men, killing children. Gross fucking incompetents.'_ John thought. Even if he had to kill men, you could at least sell the children to either the Legion through intermediaries or directly to gross fucks like Cook-cook. You could also take the children by force and through violence and initiation, make them one of your own in time. Orcs only cared about fucking… and that was fucking stupid.

But this sight of orcs on the horizon did hold a great opportunity for John, he now had his next plan in motion.

Removing Buzzkill.

* * *

Back in the Dark Fortress:

"Six is your name, after the number?" Chloe said, confusion showing on her face.

"I did have a name… But I cannot remember it now." Six pointed to his head wound, feeling self-conscious for a moment as he did so. "I can remember things… about the past life I lived, but nothing solid."

Chloe thought on her own past and shuddered at her mental reflection. "Have you ever thought that you were better off not knowing your own past?." Chloe said. "Maybe there was something that the old you wouldn't want to remember? Something that would disappoint you or make you feel angry?"

Six thought on that question for a moment. "Good point. I've thought something similar myself… But I would rather have my old memories back, good and bad… Life is about remembering, reminiscing, experiencing… the good and the bad, both." The courier paused for a moment. "I remember a saying."

 **"In the bark lay wounds**

 **They attest of honor**

 **They attest of misdeed**

 **Some hurt more than others**

 **I give you your heritage**

 **If you want**

 **It will not leave**

 **Heavy it weighs**

 **Remember, do not take more than you can bear."**

Chloe listened to that, reflected on those words for a moment. They clinged to her, they spoke a great wisdom, to which previously she had been blind.

Maybe it was not all bad, that which had happened to her in the past. She thought about herself, how far she had gone, despite the rape, the abuse. She was now the right-hand of a queen. Not many people could ever rise to such prestige.

Was it perhaps by experiencing the worst that life could offer, she had become powerful? Was it something else?

Finally, Chloe commented, with an air of finality. "I was raped."

Understanding dawned in the Courier's mind. "I understand, completely." He uttered. Anger showed on his face, as well as a look of understanding "I know of someone who was raped, A soldier. Her name was Betsy. I'll tell you one thing, Don't let it get to you."

The courier waited for a moment before uttering a secret of his own, feeling that he might as well throw something into the pot. "I… Sometimes, I think about ending my life. Throwing away the card, hurling the dice. I am always a pawn to someone else." Seeing that Claudia didn't respond, the Courier continued. "Sometimes I would play a scenario in my head where I would imagine getting my revenge on the man who… put this scar on my head. I'd kill him, then I would stand over his body and shoot myself in the head. It'd be my big 'Fuck you' send off… You can't be a pawn to somebody else when your dead."

Chloe was woefully silent as she listened to all that was said, trying to offer advice, but she couldn't think of anything to say to broach the situation. Yet, she remembered facing something similar.

"It's irrational, I know. I don't even mean to do it, but I just… feel this way, sometimes." Six continued. "Once or twice after a gunfight, I thought… 'why can't you just fucking kill me already?'... Sometimes I charge into a gunfight, seeking death… the finality of it all. It's fucked up."

Chloe finally spoke up. "I wanted to kill myself, when I was young… back when, you know. But every time I tried, I couldn't hurt myself. My body didn't want me too. It would have been easy, but… I kept on living, kept on being… that."

The courier pulled out a drink from his backpack. "This is all depressing. I think I could use a drink."

Finding a glass nearby, the courier tipped his bottle to the cup. The liquid was a light brown as it started to flow. Pre-war whiskey. "Would you like a drink?" Six offered to Chloe as he poured.

Chloe looked around for a moment before finally agreeing to a small sample. "A small glass."

Both hastily consumed the alcohol, though Chloe coughed on her first sip whereas Six made a face of grimace as he skulled his drink. Two-hundred year old whiskey wasn't always the best, but it was alcoholic.

Chloe spoke. "What is this?"

"Distilled booze. Aqua vitae, the water of life." Six said. "It kicks, it bites… it takes away the pain for a little while."

"In the bark lay wounds." Chloe said, remembering the words he spoke before. "Some wounds hurt more than others, some will heal and some will never heal. But, It is good to have these wounds. We have experienced them and survived, faced the hardship and won, even though it is a heavy thing."

Six looked at Chloe as she spoke, and when she had finished, he spoke in agreement. "We can share our wounds, our stories, our pain… and the pain inside becomes more bearable, knowing that somebody else understands you, knows what you've been through. It's like an anvil has been thrown off of you."

Chloe pointed to Six's gunshot wound. "We have both been through a lot, it seems."

"Disgusting."

Hearing that word, both Chloe and Six turned to face the source of that comment. Large, tall, dark-skinned and elf-eared… it was none other than Olga, the dark Queen.

"My Queen." Chloe said, hastily getting up to her feet from her chair.

"You are associating with that… animal!" Olga shouted.

Six stood up from his chair. There were a hundred things that he wished he could say, a thousand ways he wished he could act... but he begrudgingly degraded himself.

"I am an animal, your excellency. I am a hound of war, a dog of fortune."

Olga laughed in a haughty fashion as she began to stroke over the couriers neck, feeling over her collar. "I am afraid that there is already a hound of war, A black dog known as Volt." Olga's laughing stopped as she assumed a vicious smirk. "But I can always use a lapdog."

Six sighed, before humiliating himself. "Then I am your lapdog, your excellency."

Chloe looked to Olga for a moment. "Enough of this, just tell him what you want."

* * *

Elsewhere:

"Fucking water, always fucking water…" Buzzkill muttered in anger. Her mission was shit… get fucking water, deliver it to the groups…

"Fuck that… Fuck you, fuck you… Fuck you!"

Buzzkill shouted, looking to the three plastic buckets that were filled with water, the objects of her self-imposed hatred.

*Groan*

Of course, It didn't help that her period was about to start in a few days time, nor did starvation or her lingering drug addiction help her when she was forced to give her stash to that power-armoured fuckhead.

"Well… look at thiiiis…"

"Buehuehuehiihihiii!"

"Fuckmeat, Pink fuckmeat!"

Buzzkill turned around with but one quick action, drawing her pistol out from its tight holster…

"Fuck you!"

This shout being followed up by a shot to the lower-belly of one orc. The nine millimeter round, given that it was hollowpoint and that the muscle mass of the orc was partly-muscular, partly-fatty, found little problem of expansion… and rather over-expanded as the round entered into his large intestinal tract, which vibrated intensely. The permanent cavity was about the same diameter as that caused by .45 ACP.

That orc, unaccustomed to such violence, and given that he was shot in a pain-sensitive region, dropped to the ground in great fits of pain. His chance of surviving from such a wound was nearly zero, perhaps with a life expectancy of two days to a week.

"Yeah, Fuck you!"

Buzzkill shouted, aiming at another orc.

She fired three rounds, not entirely accurate but hitting him twice in the chest and once in the right shoulder… he was mortally wounded with the second shot, the third one hitting him as he died.

"Fuck you!"

Buzzkill fired four times in quick succession at her next opponent, to her dismay missing two of the four rounds, which due to the previous recoil and quick horizontal strafing, caused her to fire high, which she corrected by pulling down on her handle, levelling down her last two shots.

One of these bullets hit the orc on the cheek, but it was in such a location where the bullet encountered little resistance and missed the cheekbone, causing for no expansion and a clear track from the front of his cheek to the back of his cheek, gushing out with a thin trail of blood from both ends.

The fourth shot, however, was certainly fatal. This round entered through the nasal cavity, hitting bone as it tore through, causing the bullet to tumble violently, coming out at an unpredictable forty degree angle derivation, causing the bullet to rip through the top of his skull… small amounts of brain-fluid coming out in a thin rivulet in response.

"Huuuuuuufff!" Buzzkill breathed, her nerves frayed, her adrenaline spiking, her anger nearly unquantifiable.

She lowered her pistol downwards, her index finger resting against the barrel, safely away from the trigger.

"Urkkk."

Quickly noticing the panicked, pained voice of the surviving orc, she felt the hatred running through her veins, simmering away.

Enough was enough. They had called her 'fuckmeat', what a horrible choice in words.

For several moments her mind remembered the old chants and insults.

In Buzzkill's life, there were many people who thought that she was a slut. They spat at her, called her a whore, a cum-hungry bitch. Her mother disowned her, kicked her out the door…

It wasn't her fault, being raped. But no… no, let's punish the rape-ee and not the rapist. She took drugs to escape… did things, unimaginable things…

Fuck, that. She wasn't going to take anymore of that shit.

Fuck that shit.

Those two words were the type of words that the orcs should never have said. Those were the type of words that brought back painful memories.

Buzzkill's switchblade was out.

"Fuckmeat!" Buzzkill shouted out, screaming at the orc that lay at her feet, bleeding profusely from his stomach.

The orc spat at her, laughing. "Hahaha, The others… hump you."

Buzzkill hocked up a wad of spit and spat directly into the orcs wound, then she raised her boot up into the air, stomping down directly over the wound.

"Bllllcchh!" Was the sound of the orc, vomiting from his mouth.

Buzzkill then took a knee, laying over the orc's 'considerably' fat belly. "Who knows, fuckface. Maybe the other mutie-fucks like you will rape me… But I'll live, retard. You won't," Buzzkill paused as she gestured the blade of her switchblade across from cheek to cheek, drawing a visual line, showing what she had in store for him. "Here, now… It's just you and me, piggo, And I'm going to fuck you up, mutie, gonna cut you up really fucking bad, fuckface. I'll make you squeal."

For the first time in his life, the orc below her knew unimaginable terror.

* * *

Bop heard the gunshots, guessed the direction that they came from. He knew Buzzkill had been assigned to fetch water from that area.

He was up in arms at a moments notice, his FN Fal cradled in his hands.

Jerome, the third man of the group, a powder-ganger, raised his voice. "Hey, what the fuck are you doing?"

Bop wished that he could talk, but he couldn't, his body didn't want to ever since the trauma. Ever since his family had been murdered by raiders, since he was enslaved, he had been mute. He could grunt, sometimes he could even speak… but he could barely form sentences. He hated himself and his stupid impediment.

They put him into an arena, gave him the nickname 'The Stutterer', forced him to fight and kill other slaves. When the fiends killed his masters… he joined up as quick as he could. Some of the fiends tried to get on his bad side, but Violet told them to fuck off, they did. Violet's death had gotten to him and Buzzkill, as Violet had been Buzzkill's 'leader'.

They had buried her in an unmarked grave, her headless corpse bloated with rot. Buzzkill swore revenge over the grave, whilst Bop did the same with a grunt. There was no way in hell that Bop was going to allow another of his friends to die.

"Gnnng." Bop growled, avoiding eye contact with Jerome.

Before Jerome could speak, Bop had left the building.

"Fuck." Jerome said, reaching for his grenade rifle and its loosely hanging bandoleer. "Fucked If I do, fucked If I don't."

Jerome hastily reached around at his bandoleer, retrieving a high-explosive round and holding it in his left hand whilst he threw it around his shoulder, securing it there by the weight of the 40mm cartridges. This done, he broke open the tube of his rifle and slotted his chosen round inside, then put the barrel back to its usual position, locking it in place.

Once Jerome was outside, he quickly ran to the direction of the shooting. It wouldn't be too much of a run.

*Scrrchh* "What in the fuck are you doing!"

Jerome knew that the voice on the radio receiver hanging off his belt belonged to 'Rat', one of the mercenary guys. He was a squat, funny man and a proud shit-talker, but he also happens to be a good sniper. Jerome quickly reached for his radio receiver as he jogged forwards through the terrain.

"The big-guy is going after that chick." Jerome replied. "I'm not going to let them die."

*Scrrchh* "Make sure spikey gets back." Rat responded. Even through the radio, Jerome knew that the short little bastard had a grin on his face. "I like her." Rat added a moment later.

After a short dash, he managed to reach up to Bop. "Oi, stick together."

Bop grunted in the affirmative.

* * *

Buzzkill was barely finished with the orc when she heard a booming voice from behind.

"I see you've killed some of us."

Buzzkill grabbed the heavily cut head of the dead orc and lifted it up high into the air, the head hanging up through the strands of hair grasped by her left hand.

"Yeah I have, fuckface. What are you going to do about it?" Buzzkill gave a manic smile, as blood dripped down from her cheeks and hair. "You wanna know what I did?"

The orc raised his hand through the air, waving it once, to which about ten other orcs and several goblins emerged from the forest, their weapons clearly presented. "I do." The orc said.

Noting that they didn't move further, and given that her pistol would hardly have enough ammunition in her magazine to contend with about fifteen hostiles, she decided to stall for time.

Being dramatic, Buzzkill lowered the decapitated orc head lower, near to her face. "Oh, to be or not to be… well that's a fucking stupid question." Buzzkill announced, remembering some stupid phrase from her childhood… hamlet or something.

Moving the head to and fro, she mimed the voice of the dead orc, as though she were having a conversation. "Oh, mistress of death, Indeed it is… I'm a fucking great-green retard you see."

The orcs on the other side were enthralled by the sight… so unimaginable to them, they were completely silent. In the minds of the orcs, they saw humanity as the weak… the 'civilised' and saw themselves as the savage, untamable beasts that ought to rule the world. Civilisation and barbarism seemed to be differing concepts.

And so, when a human girl streaming with the blood of an orc, was seen having a dramatic dialogue with the head of a dead person... it was like the combining of two worlds, the world of the civilised… and the world of the savage and barbaric all at once. Something familiar but altogether strange and exotic. It was sublime, captivating, humorous yet… invigorating.

Buzzkill mimed the voice of the orc. "I'm such a retard, I thought I could fuck'er… like my mother and my brother, my horse and my goat."

Laughing ensued amongst those who stood on the opposite. It was so bizarre. The leader of this squad was stunned. As all orcs did upon seeing women, he saw an inferior being, a weakling only deserving of bearing their spawn, now his opinion on this woman had changed.

Buzzkill turned to face the orcs. "But I showed this retard that I am not to be fucked with. Wanna know how he died?"

"Get on with it." The orc leader replied.

Buzzkill retrieved her switchblade and proceeded to stab and slice the mutilated head several times, blood pooling out to the ground in drips. "I hacked and I slashed… and out came his guts. I laughed and smiled and cut out his liver and his spleen."

Buzzkill threw the switchblade high into the air before grasping the head of the orc by both hands, proceeding to bite off one of the orcs ears, spitting it off into the distance as it hung by the corner of her lips. "Wanna know the moral of the story... you shouldn't try to fuck me… or fuck with me!" Buzzkill swore, nearly screaming it out.

Buzzkill then looked towards the orc leader. "Because If you try to fuck me, I'm gonna cut off your cock and fuck you with it. Right up the asshole… then you'll clean it off with your mouth." Buzzkill paused for a moment, then spoke again, to clarify that she was indeed telling the truth. "This ain't no joke, I really will cut it off and fuck you with it."

The orc leader stepped two steps forwards. "Ordinarily, I would turn a woman like you into my bitch. But not you..."

Buzzkill quickly reached for her pistol and pointed it out towards him. She didn't want to shoot him, not really, because if she did, the guys under his leadership would certainly kill her, but not before each one got a turn at raping her, but on the other hand, it could save her some time as killing the leader outright might demoralise the rest of his men enough for her to run away.

"And that, piggo, is something that I don't want to be. No offense, you might have a big dick or whatever, but I am exclusively a pussy-licker… just so you know." Buzzkill was lying on the last part, but she liked to lie about her sexuality to see how people reacted. She loved fucking with people.

The orc leader had no idea what that was, though he could deduce through the word that It might have suggested something sexual. "What?"

Buzzkill laughed. "You know, a dyke. I fucking love pussy. So unless you have some nice slave women… yeah no."

The orc leader quickly spoke up. "I'll show you what a real man is… pussy-licker. I'll have you sucking my dick on a daily basis, from now on, you will suck my cock."

Buzzkill sighed. "That's nice to know, fuckface. How bout I tell you another story?"

The orc stared blankly for a moment. "What?"

"Oh, it's a great story… It's about what happens when you don't offer me a drink of gin, first."

Raising her arm higher whilst the orc looked dumbly onwards, waiting for her next words, she shot the confused orc scout-leader in the head. His men were shocked, watching the man who ruled them for several years getting his life cut short in an instant, as though it were divine providence that had killed him, rather than the girl before them.

Buzzkill laughed for a moment, then screamed from the top of her head, manically, singing a line from an old song. "Why don't you do right… Like some other men do!"

Buzzkill then fired her pistol in a sweeping horizontal axis, not hitting anybody. As soon as her slide drew back and her firearm clicked, she ran like crazy while the confused orcs, many of whom had ducked down from when she fired repeatedly, began to squabble over what they should do.

A new, impromptu orcish scout leader emerged, entirely self-acclaimed from a moment of panic. His name was Bargul. "Fuck that, I'm not risking my life going after that cunt!"

Quite a few of the orcs and goblins started to agree with his assessment. But not all of them.

Ragadur vehemently disagreed with that statement. With the singular movement of his wrist he sent his javelin flying in an arc, hitting Bargul in the right thigh.

Ragadur then raised his voice, taunting Bargul. "I smell ripe bitch, I go fuck, kill, be happy! You go suck cock and be happy, I fuck women."

Ragadur then rushed off, not caring if he would be followed or not. In this, he was followed by all but two.

Bargul grasped at the javelin that found itself slightly embedded in his thigh, hanging off by a mere flap of his skin and several layers of fabric of his armour against the whole weight of the javelin. With a quick pull, it was out. Bargul thanked his textile armour for saving his leg from any worse damage, as without it… the javelin shaft would be jutting out of the other side of his leg.

"Fucker." Bargul remarked. "I hate assholes like that."

Zuruk, his friend and companion, his only follower, agreed with that statement. "Gnrrrr, fuck those lunatics."

Bargul sighed. "I'm going back to the Dark fortress. Being treated like... A human… Bah!"

* * *

Jerome spotted her first, running like a bat out of hell. Behind her, a large group of mutie fucks. He estimated that the range was maybe a hundred to a hundred and ten meters out.

Quick on the uptake, Jerome angled his weapon in such a fashion that the front sight lined up with the rear sight, through the 20 meter intervals until he got to where he felt it was right. Then he lowered the angle slightly, to accommodate for ballistic drop and the time of flight. He knew that it would take roughly a little over one second for the projectile to hit his target, at the distance he was firing from.

-Bluuump-

It was always a satisfying sound, the report of the grenade rifle as it fired. Now, the 40mm grenade sailed through the air in an arc, reaching the area at a somewhat quick pace, but not too fast that you could not see it in flight.

-Bang-

Jerome then turned to face Bop, letting his grenade rifle flop down as he dropped it to be suspended by the leather sling. "I'll grab her, you shoot!"

* * *

Dark Fortress:

Olga pointed to several spots on her map. "This is the city of Ur and this is the city of Feoh. These two cities comprise the eastern-most cities within striking distance."

Looking down on the map, Six tried his best to remember the names and the plan.

"My plan is thusly, To hastily storm the city of Feoh and Ur. This will be a two-pronged attack with an army of 5,000 in each. But, this is divisionary in nature. I have a third army of 20,000 men, which is slowly marching down towards Ken as we speak. Should the attack on either Feoh or Ur be successful, the other cities will be forced to redirect some of their forces to try to regain the fallen city, sapping their armies of men… The city of Ken should thus have reduced numbers of soldiers, guardsmen and knights by the time my 20,000 men army arrives."

Six thought on this for a moment. "How is the logistics?"

Olga reacted with a haughty tone. "Such things are beneath me. For all I care, they could be starving at the end… But as long as they can fight is all I care about." Olga paused for a moment. "Now, let us get straight to the point."

Olga pointed her right index finger towards Feoh. "I have decided that you would serve me better If you were a lone agent. You are a human and with the right disguise, would be hard to distinguish from any other human." Olga paused. "In a word, you will be perfect."

Olga then walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a rolled up segment of paper. Once it was unfurled, Six saw that it was a smuggled-in plan of the layout of Feoh. "You are to do anything in your power to facilitate the invasion of Feoh and ensure it's hasty success is brought to conclusion."

Six sighed to himself. "I understand, your excellency."

Olga then turned to face Chloe. "I direct you to Chloe, Lapdog. She will provide you with further information and provide you with your disguise."

* * *

*The saying in **bold** comes from the lyrics from Wardruna's Odal, that have been re-arranged to fit better.


End file.
